“Noooo!” Melody screams.
The word echoes in my head, the gun hot in my hand.
“No,” Melody cries out again, falling onto her knees. “No, no, no.”
I put the gun down and kneel beside her, hugging her. “It’s over, Melody,” I say, squeezing her tightly. “He can’t hurt us anymore.”
She just keeps moaning the word over and over again. No. No. No. Gripping her head, she rocks back and forth.
“It’s over, Mel. It’s over.” I try to hold her, but she moves away from me.
“You weren’t supposed to get the gun,” she says, tears in her voice. “I was trying to hold onto it. You weren’t supposed to get it.” She rubs her eyes, hiccuping, trying to control her crying. “I’ll tell them. I’ll take the blame.”
“No one’s going to blame us,” I say, realizing she’s in shock. “It’s terrible that we killed someone. Of course it is. But it was self-defense. Anybody is going to understand that. It was obviously self-defense.”
“My prints are on there too,” she says, ignoring me, seemingly talking to herself. “So I can say I just showed you how to use it.” She nods over and over. “You just touched it, but I was the one who shot it.”
“Melody,” I snap, wanting to smack some sense into her. “Come on. It doesn’t matter who shot him. We didn’t have a choice. It was him or us. Let’s go. Let’s find Lainey now. That’s all the matters.”
But Melody keeps ignoring me. She stands up and calmly starts walking over to Eric Myers.
“Jesus,” I say, baffled, and grab her to stop her. “What are you doing?”
But she keeps going, pulling me toward his body until we stand there inches away from him. Being this close sends fear and revulsion through me, even with him just lying there, not threatening anymore. The knife still sits in his gloved hand, and I kick it away.
But then I see him move an inch.
I pull her back with a gasp. “He’s not dead.”
But Melody pushes me away. “Thank you, God,” she says, relief pouring into the words. She rushes toward the body. “Thank God.”
“He might still be dangerous, Melody,” I warn her.
But she doesn’t listen, crouching down over his body. Blood stains the stomach of his black shirt, the dark circle slowly expanding.
“You don’t understand,” she says, in a whisper.
“We can call an ambulance for him,” I say, gripping her shoulder to pull her back from danger. “Once we get a signal. But please. Stay away from him.”
“No. You don’t understand,” she repeats, and slowly pulls the balaclava off.